


Love in the Time of Science

by mostofthepieces (quantumofsolace)



Series: Love in the Time of Science [2]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumofsolace/pseuds/mostofthepieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Love in the Time of Science"</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Think of Me

**Author's Note:**

> "Love in the Time of Science"

"Love in the Time of Science"

The crime scene was surrounded by reams of yellow tape. Several reporters lurked in a corner drinking coffee and making note of who was coming and going. They didn't pay much notice to the cab that pulled up to the corner until they saw one of the uniforms raise the tape to allow two civilians enter the church courtyard. They squinted into the late afternoon dusk to get a better look, but the two men were moving fast and disappeared up the path and inside the large double doors before they could snap a single shot.

John Watson stopped just short of Sherlock Holmes as they entered the church. He knew that Sherlock liked room to make his observations. Sherlock was completely focused on the new case since Lestrade had called to request their presence nearly half an hour before. It was a familiar scene. Several uniforms were on the perimeter guarding the evidence. Technicians snapped pictures in rapid succession and labeled blood splatters, but he could quite see the body. It was at the altar, but surrounded by a bevy of people having a rather heated discussion.

"He wants it to look ritualistic…but it's not a ritual." Sherlock muttered. He paused beside a bloody handprint. "Victim is male. Under twenty-five."

"From a handprint?" John sighed and glanced around. "Why do it in the middle of the day? Someone had to hear him."

"No one heard anything." Inspector Lestrade joined them between the pews. He gestured towards the body. "We've waited for you before taking it away, Sherlock."

"Anderson?"

"Waiting outside." Lestrade stepped back as Sherlock dashed past him towards the body.

"Inspector."

"John. I see you're still assisting Sherlock."

John shrugged. He didn't really feel as though he was helpful to Sherlock in such moments. He watched Sherlock's progression of logic and marveled—the world's best consulting detective was in his element. He was already bent over the prostate form on one knee. "Stripped to skin…clothes most likely cut away. The symbols on his back are Egyptian hieroglyphs…random…probably lifted them from google."

"You read hieroglyphs. They were copied…not written. Someone wanted them to look ancient and sinister. The killer is right handed from the impressions. Large and strong. He staged this…everything."

"He took a souvenir?" John ignored the markings for a moment and studied the victim's hair.

"A lock of hair. Not so cleanly cut." Sherlock agreed. "It was a last minute decision."

"His name was Peter Thistlewaite. The priest just identified him. Twenty-three years old. A graduate student at university. He was home for the holidays to visit his parents. He was deaf and mute. So he didn't hear the killer coming and he couldn't scream." Lestrade commented.

"Horrible." John shuddered. "Did the killer choose him for those reasons?"

"Addresses? University and home." Sherlock demanded. "The killer was watching him. He knew his routine. The young man's pattern shifted today. He did not come here on a regular basis. He came here out of desperation."

"We have to talk to the family and take statements first, Sherlock. You can be there—"

"I don't interview with the police. Tell them to expect me tomorrow. The university address?"

"Don't question anyone." Lestrade opened his cell phone. "I'm calling the university to tell them that you're coming. You can go through his room as long as your wear gloves. I have to send a forensics escort, but they'll just observe until the team arrives. Are we clear Sherlock?"

Sherlock was preoccupied on his smart phone as his fingers tapped rapidly.

"Of course, Inspector." John accepted the paper that Lestrade tore from a well worn notepad. He steered Sherlock towards the exit of the church without any difficulty. He was confident when he touched Sherlock now—not bemused or completely floored by his behavior. The subtle shifts between them would have happened whether or not they had becomes lovers. He realized it the very same day they returned to 221B Baker Street. The forces that set them spiraling into orbit with one another were far deeper. Their compatibility was evident on every level. Even without understanding, he knew on an instinctive level just what Sherlock needed. And God help him, Sherlock knew exactly the same for John.

"The family won't be helpful. They wouldn't notice such a person. I don't know why Lestrade wastes his time."

John firmly gave the taxi driver directions before settling next to Sherlock. "He has to have something to do, Sherlock. You know everything…well almost everything."

"Not now, John." Sherlock growled. "He had to have walked to the church. The university is close enough. It wasn't his family's parish…so why did the priest know him?"

"We could—"

"Questioning the priest won't be helpful as of yet—I don't know who we're looking for. Too many extra variables…besides the police are in the way." Sherlock grinned.

"If he was deaf and mute…we need to find his interpreter…" John suggested. "And professors."

"Yes. I'll search his room and question his roommates. You find the interpreter, teachers and-"

"Lestrade won't—"

"He moves too slowly. The killer has already finished his job. We have to catch up to him. We have to move faster." Sherlock nodded decisively. He stared out of the cab window. "You know. It's never worked before."

"What?"

"We work so well together. I was afraid that it would change, but it's still the same. It's better." Sherlock didn't turn towards him. His face remained stoic. He tapped his fingers on his knee.

John let his hand rest on Sherlock's thigh, a subtle move. Relatively safe and unseen. He stared straight ahead, his fingers tightening slightly. His jaw clenched with things unsaid, but they would have to wait. Their relationship depended on a certain level of privacy. Sherlock wouldn't have Mycroft prying into his affairs. John didn't need the world to acknowledge their connection. The world had recognized their relationship even before they were ready to admit it.

"The game is on, Sherlock."

"Yes, John. The game is on."


	2. Abandoned Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Holmes? The dorm director is waiting for you with the R.A. for the victim's dormitory." The uniformed officer held open the door to the high rise building.

"Mr. Holmes? The dorm director is waiting for you with the R.A. for the victim's dormitory." The uniformed officer held open the door to the high rise building.

Sherlock glanced dismissively at the man in the ill-fitting suit. "I need access to the dorm room."

"Of course, sir. We'll cooperate with the police on every level. The student who shared Mr. Thistlewaite's room is in class, but we have someone waiting for him. They'll escort him here within the hour."

"Fine." Sherlock found it difficult to hide his impatience.

"I'll show you where, sir." The young man gestured towards the elevator. "Sherlock Holmes. I've always wanted to meet you. I think you're brilliant."

"I'm sure." Sherlock was scanning through the information about Peter Thistlewaite. His personal profile on social networks revealed his interests: football, mystery novels and art. His major was in art. Photography was his medium of choice. His latest collection was scheduled to appear in the university library at the end of the week. There were pictures of him with friends, his parents, teachers and one particular woman. Dr. Aimee Deveraeaux.

"What type of case are you working on? A serial killer? A psychopath?" The R.A. had to hurry to keep up with Sherlock's pace.

"Sociopath is the correct term." Sherlock corrected as he swept down the hall. "Is this the room?"

"Yes, sir." The young man fiddled with a key for a moment before it swung open into the room. "So what happened to Peter?"

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock glared down at the diminutive young man hovering in the doorway. "Your presence is unnecessary. I am not here to steal anything. There is a very nice officer guarding the door. Go put some knowledge in your tiny brain. This is a university isn't it?"

"But you're Sherlock Holmes…Sherlock Holmes ishere in my dormitory. I read 'A Study in Pink' ten times. You're brilliant. Is Dr. Watson here? I have lots of questions for him."

"He's on campus." Sherlock sudden grin seemed to unbalance the young man. "What is your name?"

"Tony, sir."

"Tony, why don't you go track down Dr. Watson for me? He's in the admissions office. Let him know that I'm waiting for him to join me. Don't return without him." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand before slamming the dorm room door shut. Everyone liked to gush about the blog. It wasn't surprising. John had remarkable skill when it came to writing. He knew which details would entice and how to build suspense. His writing skills were much like other skills Sherlock had the pleasure of experiencing.

He ignored the left side of the room and sat down at the desk. It was time to uncover all the victim's secrets.

* * *

John knocked on the studio doors. He had tried to find four of the five professors that were listed for Thistlewaite, but only one seemed to still be on campus. Dr. Aimee Devereaux. He straightened his jacket and waited.

"Come in! I can't get to the door." Her voice was faintly accented. John could tell that much. No doubt Sherlock would be able to deduce exactly where she was from with pinpoint accuracy. He pushed open the door to the studio and popped his head inside. "Hello?"

"Hello? Can I help you with something?" The petite woman was struggling perched on a ladder balancing an ornate ironworks piece as she attempted to attach it to a metal hook that hung from the ceiling.

John rushed forward to steady the ladder. "I think maybe you need my help, Dr. Devereaux. That monstrosity must be quite heavy."

She managed a small smile as she finally hooked the piece. "So it is, but I made it that way. It's my own fault. Call me, Aimee. I feel so old when I hear Dr. Devereaux."

"Dr. John Watson." He held out a hand to Aimee as she descended the ladder. "I need to speak to you concerning one of your students, Peter Thistlewaite. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?"

Aimee steadied herself on his shoulder and skipped the last step. Her smile widened. "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson. You're not a teacher?"

"Army doctor." John flushed just a bit as she stared at him up through her lashes.

"We can talk in my little cubby. I have some tea and a stash of something stronger. It's growing late and I need some refreshment. You can tell me why a handsome army doctor has come to discuss Peter Thistlewaite." She brushed past him, her hips swaying gently.

Her cubby was in the corner of the room. A small sofa and chaise were positioned catty-corner with a low table between. A tea service was already set up. John sat were she indicated. "I think you should sit down as well, Aimee."

"I'll pour the tea first, shall I?"

"I think we should talk first."

She curled onto the couch beside him. "John. You look so serious. Surely—"

"Peter Thistlewaite has been murdered today."

"No!" Her eyes widened. "I just saw Peter this morning. He stopped by to show me some of the early prints for his show. It's impossible."

"I'm sorry to bring such news to you."

"Why didn't the police come? Who are you?"

"They will come in time—I work with a consulting detective. Our approach is different..." John watched her face. The emotions shifting from shock to confusion to anger before settling into a mixture of all three. "You were Peter's teacher—"

"Teacher…advisor…" She whispered. "He's dead? Are you sure?"

"The priest identified him positively." John reached out to pat her hand, a bit awkwardly. He had seen death and grief. He had lost friends in the war.

She burst into tears, throwing her arms around his neck and sobbing horribly. John blinked and patted her back. "You were more than just teacher and student, Dr. Devereaux?"

Her wail filled the studio. It was going to be a long afternoon.


	3. Til it's Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John had resigned himself to the bundle that was Aimee Devereaux. He managed to quiet her sobbing. She was hiccupping over a cup of doctored tea, but refusing to let him move more than a few feet away. From her incoherent mumbling, he learned that she and Peter Thistlewaite had become lovers soon after he signed up for her class. Their affair was one of a shared passion for art and each other.

John had resigned himself to the bundle that was Aimee Devereaux. He managed to quiet her sobbing. She was hiccupping over a cup of doctored tea, but refusing to let him move more than a few feet away. From her incoherent mumbling, he learned that she and Peter Thistlewaite had become lovers soon after he signed up for her class. Their affair was one of a shared passion for art and each other.

"Dr. Deveraux…Aimee. Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt, Peter? Someone who didn't like his art…a jealous ex-boyfriend…someone he'd argued with?"

"He is so private. He only has a few friends. They all get along really well. Everyone loves his photography. The critics are going to give his show rave reviews…he is…he was…." The tears started again.

"Is there someone I can call…a family member…a friend?" John tried to hide his discomfort as she pressed her face against his jacket. It would have to be dry-cleaned. The woman seemed to have to end of tears. He took the tea cup and set it on the table before resuming the awkwardly rhythmic patting of her back.

There was a knock on the door. "Dr. Devereaux? Dr. Watson?"

"Come in!" John bellowed. "We're in here!"

"I've been looking for you everywhere…you're Dr. Watson?" The young man stopped at the sofa. "Sherlock Holmes needs to see you immediately. You look different in person…how did you manage to snag Mr. Holmes. He's soooo dashing."

John lifted his brows and exhaled loudly. "If Sherlock needs me, you-what's your name?"

"Tony. I read your blog religiously. I have few questions and a couple of suggestions. You might have noticed my comments?" Tony rubbed his jaw.

"I'm sure you can e-mail me any concerns, Tony. What you need to do is sit with Dr. Devereaux." John efficiently extricated himself from the woman's clutches and motioned for Tony to come forward. "I need to get to Sherlock."

Tony seemed to respond to the authority in his voice. John was grateful. He doubted that Sherlock really desperately needed more than someone to hand him something arbitrary. He didn't mind. Sometimes handing Sherlock random items led to other interesting things. Sometimes Sherlock asked to be handed not so random things. John flushed at the thought. Sometimes Sherlock took the initiative and didn't ask at all. He grinned and hurried to find out what Sherlock needed.

* * *

Sherlock smiled when he saw a familiar blonde hurrying towards the dorms. He stood near the patrol car. John changed directions when he saw him. He didn't look overly concerned. He did take a deep breath when he finally came to stand next to Sherlock. "A rather insipid boy said that you needed me."

"Well. I did. You can help me later. I'm ready to head back to 221B…we need to think about a few things. You can tell me what you found out when we arrive. I need a coffee. "

"I can drop you where ever you like, sir." The patrolman gestured towards the car.

"We'll get a cab. There's not need." Sherlock was already striding away.

The cab ride to Baker Street was uneventful. Sherlock was grinned as he pulled off his coat and scarf. He held up a slim laptop. "I took Thistlewaite's computer so that we could take a look at what was going on in his head. His contacts and the like…see what attracted our killer."

John sighed. "You stole evidence."

"Borrowed."

"I'll put the coffee on. Do you want anything to eat?"

"No. I just need a couple of patches while I'm hacking." Sherlock sat at his desk and was already booting up the laptop. "You should eat."

"I'll order take-away." John replied absently as he started the coffee grinder. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He finished grinding the coffee beans before he flipped it open.

 **Just had a lovely date with a new lady. Want to introduce you to her. We'll have coffee. –Harry**

He sighed. His sister had dated a string of girls in the past few months, but he hadn't needed to meet them. He had enough worries on his mind without having to worry about her love life as well. He also didn't want to see her glancing at them with speculation. She was so curious about his relationship with Sherlock that he sort of dreaded the meeting. She would crow with joy. It was so difficult to hid anything from Harry.

He really just wanted to relax in his chair after eating his dinner and help Sherlock solve the mystery. He typed a rather noncommittal reply, poured the coffee grounds into the coffee maker and went to join Sherlock.

"He was a fair photographer. Detailed. He's labeled all of his shot…even the ones he's not using. His digital prints show a good eye. An interesting technique. Such close-ups are hard to do well." Sherlock was scrolling through photos. He tilted the computer so John could see as well. John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to get a better look. The photo of a single matchstick on the wooden table was a riveting display of light and color. He felt as though he could reach out and touch everything.

Sherlock looked up at John and for a moment neither said anything. John leaned down to kiss him, balancing with one hand on the table and the other on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt Sherlock lift his mouth in response, but he didn't rush. It was a kiss of promise and anticipation.

"He was having an affair with his art teacher." John commented quietly as he straightened up and moved to sit at his own desk. He faced Sherlock. "She was in tears. She's probably still sobbing."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"Thistlewaite's art teacher was his lover. She collapsed all over me."

"Did she?"

John leaned forward. "Someone could have known."

Sherlock nodded. He stared at John's mouth, contemplating the content feeling that spread through him for just a moment. He exhaled and turned his attention back to the photographs. "Continue…"


	4. Joy and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John traded theories for the better part of the night. John turned on the coffee pot at intervals for Sherlock. He made copious pots of tea for himself. They argued over possible connections to cold cases John was looking at on the internet. Sherlock theorized on just who would be interested in Thistlewaite's photography or life. They explored his profile on a social network. Analyzed friendships. Tried to figure out why so many people liked to take pictures while drinking.

Sherlock and John traded theories for the better part of the night. John turned on the coffee pot at intervals for Sherlock. He made copious pots of tea for himself. They argued over possible connections to cold cases John was looking at on the internet. Sherlock theorized on just who would be interested in Thistlewaite's photography or life. They explored his profile on a social network. Analyzed friendships. Tried to figure out why so many people liked to take pictures while drinking.

John tried to keep his theories grounded in some sort of fact, but the later it got the wackier his ideas seemed to be. At dawn, he was pacing in front of the sofa while Sherlock played the violin…diminished scales…up and down… slowly then quickly and slowly again. He was sure Mrs. Hudson would come to complain, but the scales seemed to match his pacing. Sherlock paused mid-scale. "This isn't working."

"What?"

"We need to go back to the church and talk to the priest. We missed something." Sherlock sat up and began peeling nicotine patches from his arm.

"Okay." John collapsed on the sofa beside Sherlock. "What?"

"We have a couple of hours until Mass." Sherlock glanced at the clock on the mantle. "Why don't you take a shower and get some sleep—while I go back and break into the church."

"Breaking and entering is something you say you like to do on your own….but you really need me there for as backup-not like the time when I spent ten minutes yelling through the door." John protested. "So either we both take a shower and then go break in the church…or we break in the church first and then take a shower."

Sherlock spent about five minutes attempting to say something intelligible, but flailed about until he finally cleared his throat to stammer. "A shower wouldn't be unpleasant."

John was leaning forward, his hands on his cheeks as he tried to hide the grin on his face. "I think we should break into the church first…adrenaline…time constraints. Then come back here to…yeah. Danger."

Sherlock nodded. "Danger. Though…the shower could be dangerous?"

"With you…yes."

* * *

Sherlock led the way through the small courtyard to the back of the church where they could avoid the officer put on the nightwatch. He could hear John muttering something behind him as he skirted around the flowerpots. Sherlock grinned before he stopped short at the back door. "Locked."

"Not surprising." John shooed him to the side and pulled out a small bag. "I'll pick the lock."

"You're breaking the law?" Sherlock lifted a brow. "Dr. Watson…devil may care lock picker?"

"No. Dr. John Watson, person who knows that at some point while assisting the world's only consulting detective that I will need to pick some sort of lock. As a result, I now have lock pick set. I carry skeleton keys of various kinds…particularly those for handcuffs. I also keep a pocketknife in my shoe at all times." John clicked on a tiny torch and popped the end into his mouth to shine the proper amount of light over the lock. He selected a pair of slim picks and set to work. Sherlock watched in fascination as a moment later the lock clicked and John quietly turned the knob. He hastily tucked his tools away in his jacket along with the torch.

"Impressive." Sherlock breathed in surprise. "Come on. Let's go see the church again."

John followed Sherlock into the darkened hallway and around the corner. Sherlock always seemed to know where he was going instinctively and they arrived in the sanctuary not two minutes later. Sherlock immediately began assessing things again…his internal dialogue was fascinating when spoken aloud because John was sure he only got perhaps a third of the scenarios that were running through Sherlock's head.

" The killer chased him here?"

"How do you know?"

"He came in through the back not the front…look at these things…he was running in this direction." Sherlock followed the path. "The killer knew the layout of the church far better than Thistlewaite. He would've never knocked into these things. He would be careful about his surroundings."

"So if the killer chased him…why didn't anyone see them?" John inquired.

"Let's go see who might have seen him." Sherlock suggested and headed back outside with John at his heels. They crossed the courtyard again…in the opposite direction towards the campus. "You take the left and I'll take the right. Meet at the art building. Keep track of possible witness locations."

John nodded and set off. He passed several shops, a tiny apartment building, and a small park before he reached the main campus area and headed for the art building. He found a lonely streetlight to stand under just as his phone vibrated again.

 **Watson. Meet at 10 am. Car will pick you up. Bring Sherlock. No excuses. National importance.**

 **-MH**

"Just great." John growled in frustration as he snapped his phone shut.

"What?" Sherlock stared at John in puzzlement as he joined him. "Why are you frowning?"

"Six possible locations for witnesses. I'm sure Lestrade had his patrolmen do a canvas of the neighborhood." John ignored the question. "What about you?"

"Four likely places. I texted Lestrade for details. He hasn't answered."

"He's probably asleep at this hour." John replied gently. "It's what people do at night sometimes. Normal people anyway. Want to break into Aimee Devereaux's office?"

"God, yes." Sherlock grinned down at him. "Dear Watson."

John tilted his head back with a smile to match.

* * *

 _Sorry it's been so long since I updated. I promise a new entry very, very soon! Exciting things will happen in Aimee Devereaux's office…on the sofa…*wink*_


	5. What You Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Her art leaves something wanting." Sherlock stared up at the iron sculpture inside Aimee Devereaux's studio before striding across the room to her desk.

"Her art leaves something wanting." Sherlock stared up at the iron sculpture inside Aimee Devereaux's studio before striding across the room to her desk.

"Big twisty things." John ignored the art as he stepped away from the light switch and followed Sherlock. "I didn't have any time to look through her desk to see if she might actually know who killed her lover."

They searched in silence for nearly half an hour before giving up. John gave up first. He left Sherlock rifling through Aimee's lecture notes to retire to the cubby where her stash of tea and liquor resided. He poured himself a tea cup full of an off-brand whiskey before reclining on the sofa and closing his eyes. He didn't actually drink the whiskey, letting his arm hang off the edge of the sofa with the tea cup loose in his hand.

"You're tired." Sherlock's voice was soft.

John yawned. "Somewhat. I'll admit the adrenaline has worn off. Where to next?"

"I've never seen you drink before."

"I haven't actually had the drink."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa and gently took the cup from John's hand. He set it on the table. John watched him through his lashes. Sherlock looked tired as well. Tired and frustrated. He was staring at the bottle. "Why do you feel like a drink would help?"

"Sleep would help…but I doubt that will happen for the next twenty-four hours. Why?"

"You're a puzzle to me at times, John." Sherlock leaned forward until his mouth was a breath away. "Perhaps that's why I find you so attractive."

John sighed, opening his mouth to Sherlock, their tongues sliding, twining, and exploring with a sweetness that didn't always exist between them. He reached up to pull Sherlock in closer, his hand at his neck, fingers curling up into his hair. They were laughing as they gasped for air. Sherlock was stripping him with a mindless abandon to expose his neck and chest. John tried to do the same, but Sherlock's mouth was at his throat, his tongue sliding along his collar bone while his hand busily unhooked his belt.

"Sherlock—" John groaned and he felt his blood rushing directly to his cock. He closed his eyes as teeth closed around his skin and Sherlock tugged.

"Want me to stop?" Sherlock raised his head and raised a brow.

John yanked him back up for another kiss-every inch of his skin begged to be touched by Sherlock.

The consulting detective chuckled quietly to himself as his nose slid behind John's ear and he found a particularly sensitive spot just behind his earlobe. John's moan of pleasure was satisfying but not as much as John's hand sliding down to caress the length of him. The layers of fabric between them were being swiftly pushed aside to expose maximum flesh. The sofa creaked beneath them as John arched his back to move closer to him. The raw pleasure between them was exquisite. Sherlock closed his eyes and followed his desire across the open plains of John's body, giving in to every temptation, and marking his path as he explored.

John inhaled the scent of Sherlock. Chemical. Addictive. His hands were bringing Sherlock to climax. He knew the tell-tale signs….the hitch of his breath, the shudder in his spine, the shift of hips…John was close to losing control. Sherlock's fingers were everywhere; his own sighs would've been louder into muffled by Sherlock's shoulder. He knew there would be marks. He treasured them, hidden beneath his clothes…evidence of their love.

They came together. A wave of euphoria in the minutes following…whispered endearments between waves of satisfaction. John rested in Sherlock's arms…exhausted and yet completely awake…no longer feeling weary. He laughed quietly. "Best time I've ever had breaking and entering."

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself." Sherlock's fingers twined through John's. "I just couldn't wait to go home to take a shower."

"We still can take a shower together." John replied sincerely. "I could always use a little more danger."

"And then we'll catch our killer…" Sherlock's voice was just a bit distant, sated. He almost seemed to be purring with satisfaction.

"Good."

"After we go see Mycroft."

"You knew about the text?"

"No…but there are some things about you that aren't a mystery. You always frown a certain way when you get a text or call from him…different from Harry. Slightly deeper lines."

"You can tell the difference between my frowns?" John enquired. "What else?"

"I'm not telling you." Sherlock placed a quick kiss on his shoulder. "I can't give away all my secrets. I think I read somewhere that a little mystery keeps relationships going."

"You read something about relationships?"

"You were yelling at the machine in the market…I was bored."

"It was a stupid machine. I know I swiped the card right…" John muttered irritably.

Sherlock smiled.


End file.
